Steam
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Jenny plays with Gibbs' head. [back in the day].


_a/n: lol, baby jenny and her jokes. _

* * *

She was eyeing him critically, her hand on her hip, hair tied up in a messy twist, head tilted at an investigative angle, and he was starting to feel distinctly _married._

"What?" he grunted, his face completely blank.

She didn't miss a beat.

"Why is there no steam in this bathroom?" she repeated.

He stared at her, his face as composed as he could possibly keep it. He lifted his shoulders a little, and then paused; shrugging was probably a dangerous move. He sat still, his hair still slightly wet from his shower, and continued to just look at her.

She tapped her nails against the frame of the door.

"What?" he grunted again.

He hadn't really expected sharing a hotel room with Shepard would be such an ordeal—well, yes he had, but he was currently extremely terrified by where this line of questioning was going.

She rolled her eyes, and pursed her lips.

"Warm water causes steam; steam makes bathroom mirrors foggy, and floors damp, and counters dewy," she compressed her lips and pointed behind her. "This mirror is not foggy. It's not even warm in here."

His temple twitched. His hand rested limply on the remote, which he'd picked up to turn on the television, but he was now considering smashing himself in the head with. He tried to think of something to say, but came up dumb—

"Did you take a cold shower?" she demanded.

He opened his mouth, glaring at her, and couldn't come up with anything to say—how did she—what was she—

"What?" he grunted, for a third time.

What was going on?!

He knew she was a good investigator, had a sixth sense for the job, but if he'd had any idea that she was going to be able to figure out that he'd been in there in a decidedly icy shower, he'd have turned the faucet over to red just to prevent himself some embarrassment—

"You _were,"_ she deduced, noting the look on his face. She narrowed his eyes. "I cannot believe you, Jethro."

She puckered her lips, glaring him. He tried to give her a dignified look, but he was hard-pressed to do so considering—he didn't know it was _possible_ for a woman to bust him for—he was still considerably confused as to how she'd—

"It's hot outside," he defended lamely.

"It's November."

He snorted dismissively, trying to blow her off, and shrugged. She cocked an eyebrow.

"That waitress getup cannot have turned you on that much," she sneered.

"It didn't—I didn't take a cold—"

"There's no steam, Jethro!" she interrupted.

He grit his teeth.

She gave him a withering look.

"You have any idea how offended I am by this?" she asked, placing her hand back on her hip. She shook her head, strands of hair tumbling down from the messy bun, and seemed to forget about taking her turn in the shower.

He still felt ambushed, and in an effort to save himself, he said—

"Should you be flattered?"

-and winced immediately, because it was such an infinitely stupid thing to say.

Her mouth fell open slightly.

"Flattered?" she asked. "That my boss was—_pleasing_ himself in a shower because of my undercover getup?" She shook her head, clicking her tongue. He forced himself not to smirk—or god forbid, blush, and she narrowed her eyes. "Flattered is what I would be if you informed me that you needed assistance, and invited me in—instead, you're in here going at yourself in the arctic!"

It took him a moment to realize what she'd said, and then _his_ mouth fell open a little.

He stared at her, blinking slowly.

He was silent for a moment, staring at her, and then he swallowed and—

"What?" he asked dumbly, in a hoarse voice.

She gave him a look.

"You've been divorced for four months," she listed, tapping her nails again, "you've wanted to fuck me for six months, I told you how badly I wanted a shower, you said you had to go first—you had every opportunity to ask me to join you and you wanted to be with yourself?" she shook her head. "Unbelievable," she hissed, eyes flickering sharply.

He grit his teeth, trying to keep his face neutral—his probationary agent was standing in a hotel room bathroom berating him for…not trying to sleep with her? For…er, taking a cold shower instead of…taking her?

He looked down at the remote in his hand, and decided he must be dreaming. He turned his head, looked at the television, and turned it on. Then he reached down, and pinched himself—damn; not a dream. He snapped his head back to her, and narrowed his eyes.

"Are you serious?" he growled, annoyed.

She glared at him a moment longer, and then grinned brilliantly and scrunched her nose.

"Of course not, Gibbs, I'd have sucker punched you if you asked me into your _shower_," she snorted, turning on her heel. She started laughing. "I can't believe you're taking cold showers over me, you," she slammed the door, but he still heard her insult: "fucking eighth grader."

He glared at the tightly closed bathroom door for an eternity, and made a mental note to recommend Shepard for a promotion that sent her to Antarctica—or Mars—because there was really no place on earth for women who could tell when men were trying to take an innocent, frustrating, chilly but marginally satisfying cold shower.

* * *

_not apologizing, though i concede gibbs is getting slowly dorkier in every story i write._

_-alexandra  
story #187_


End file.
